The World Goes On
by Penny91
Summary: 'Peeta and I grow back together...' - Mockingjay.
1. Chapter 1

"Are you sure? You're sure you want to do this?"

My eyes are down, kept still on the bread at the center of the table. I cannot meet his. I know if I do, my resolve will shake, I will see the effect this is taking on him. I cannot bear to see his eyes so hurt, so protective, and so broken. I am not sure at all that this is what I want, so much as what we need. What I need. Carefully, my eyes rise, slowly taking in the room. The kitchen is warm, the window open and the curtains blowing in the slight breeze. I can see the game from my last hunt, strung neatly in one corner, being saved for the next few days within a box given to us and many others from the Capitol to preserve our food. There's a can of paints and brushes for his work, for his breads as well as his portraits. There are no pictures hung anywhere but over the table – a simple painting of four flowers, growing from rubble in front of a mesmerizing sunset. It is the only one I care to see, even if my heart breaks some days while taking in its meaning. I think of the room down the hall that was once my mother's that now works as a makeshift studio for him. His portraits are strewn neatly across the room covered with sheets. Some he doesn't mind seeing, others he knows I do. The ones of our nightmares, the ones he paints when he cannot seem to succumb to the weary of his aged body. Up the stairs there is another room, one I never let myself enter. It was hers, after all. I think of my own, the simple bed, the closet in the corner, the window that I keep open at night. I think of how the room is not only my own anymore, and the thought comforts me, if only for a moment.

Finally, I let my eyes fall to him. Nothing has changed his outside – the short blonde hair, his stocky build, the gentle roughness of his hands. At least while he is clothed. Underneath, his scars from the burns, the scars from his torture, they rake across his body, foreign to the boy I knew so long ago, and yet, strangely familiar now. His eyes are still striking, a blue so clear and bright I sometimes have to blink myself away from his gaze to remember to breathe. Most days, they are clear, his love and protection ever bright and present. Even so, there are days still, when the clouds come and the darkness overtakes him, and I fear I will lose him again. But I never do. Years have passed, and whatever we were has evolved to what we are now. When the dark comes and he is covered with confusion, betrayal from own mind, his own memories, he clings to what has resurfaced in his mind – his true memories, and the moments pass. They last less and less, and have become few and far between. I still fear to hope, he still fears to give himself the trust to let go.

Our biggest scars are none than can be easily seen. We both know that. No amount of clothing will ever hide what has been so effectively damaged by the war, by the games, and by time. We will never be the children we were again. Perhaps, we were never children to begin with. They made sure of that the moment our names were drawn. I certainly cannot recall feeling like a young child, not since the day I lost my father and my mother, and became the only thing to keep us alive. Well, not the only thing. I think back to the day with the bread, even now knowing I will never stop owing him from that day, from the very first time he saved my life. Even if he doesn't like to acknowledge this, I know it to be true. Now looking back, I can say that day is the first day I loved him. If only I'd known before.

Right now, we are across from one another, the table with the bread separating us though we both know it is not what presents the distance. I bring myself back to the present, back to him, and for a second, I see more than I should. His eyes are still searching, still begging for my answer. "You don't have to do this," he says, and he reaches for my hand, slowly and cautiously, as if he touches me I may sting him, or worse, pull away, though I know now the latter has the former's affect on him. I let his hand take mine, and I intertwine my fingers with his.

"I know," I say. It's all I can manage. If I say more I will change my mind. But I want to do this. I want to tell them about the games, about the life before. "Will you help me?" I know this is a useless question – he will help me whether I ask or not, even if his memories are still far too tampered with to know which are still his own.

He nods and releases my hand, and for a second, my heart stops. But then he comes and drops one arm and then the other until they engulf me, pulling me into his body from behind my chair. My arms enclose his, tightening his hold, as if it loosens, one, or both of us, may drift away. "Come on, then." He lets me go, and instead pulls me from my seat, leading me to the front room, where I know our story will be told. I am terrified, and so is he. But we know better than anyone a terror far worse than reliving a story – after all, we relive this tale often in our dreams. The worst of it was over, no matter how many nightmares we woke from screaming. It was time to tell the story the only way we could, the only way we would.

xXXx

"Prim! Prim! No!"

I wake in cold sweat. My hair has fallen out of my braid, wisps of it are stuck across my face, and I panic when I feel it almost wrapped around my neck, as if Peeta is there again, his hands clasped onto my neck trying to choke the life out of me. It takes me several minutes as I try to calm myself to remember that he isn't here. He is still at the Capitol, where the doctors still believe they can bring him back. I take a deep breath and slowly untangle my hair from my neck, feeling the broken pieces that were burnt away from the fires. As well as I can, I sit up; looking for the band I'd used to tie my hair in place earlier. Now that my heart has slowed and my breath has become less shallow, I realize the chill in the air. My window is open, the sky a dull purple. It must be early morning. The curtain sways when the breeze comes through, and I shiver against my blankets, knowing they will provide no warmth. I want to stand, to cross the room and close the window and block out the cold that begins to seize me again, but I can't seem to manage the strength. I just sit there, my knees pulled to my chest, my arms holding me into myself, as if I could possibly be pressed together any further. I rest my head against my knees, my bones a small comfort. I look out the window, watching the residual smoke left over from the fires of my distant neighbors float away until it fades against the trees belonging to my forest. In there, where my lake stays, steady with the cabin and my meeting place with Gale. I close my eyes. It is not my forest anymore.

I keep my eyes closed, trying to keep myself from seeing her face, her tiny body burning, reaching for me. And then I remember - she had no idea. She never reached for me. She had no idea her end would be then, just as those children had no idea it would be theirs. A sob pours out of me, and I am far past trying to be strong. It has done me no good. For all my efforts, the one person I thought to keep safe in the entire world is dead. I cry until the sun begins to rise, the purple dissipating from the sky, being replaced with soft blues and yellows. It is still a shock to me that the world can go on, the sun can rise, and the birds can sing, all the while Prim is no longer here to bask in it. Even seeing the sun coming through the window hurts me, for I see Prim, and Rue, in it bringing the warmth and light into the world.

I think to leave myself in bed; that perhaps I will waste away, and fade into the sheets until I am nothing. No one would miss me. Haymitch long ago stopped visiting, and for all I have seen of him, he could be dead in his cabin from alcohol. Greasy Sae comes and goes to prepare me food, but she does not come to my room when I do not respond to her calls. She long ago stopped trying to waken me from this nightmare. And then I think of my mother, of how much hatred I had for her in her weakness. I think of how her sadness crippled her, how she could not bring herself to rise for even her children once my father died. I now know I was wrong. I had no idea how real her sickness was, until now. I have no life left in me. Not without Prim or Peeta. I have lost everything to the games of the Capitol and those who fought to control it – Snow, Coin, the rebels and the innocently vile creatures that watched as children slain children for their own sick amusement. I lost everything to them.

Most mornings go on like this. Some days I have the strength to move, to pretend nothing is amiss. I ignore the emptiness and I occupy myself with hunting, as well as I can. Sometimes, I go back to the old house, and sit on the ruins, recalling memories of my father. Some days I go out and wander through the forest without my bow, hoping that a creature will come and take me from this world. They never do. They can smell the scent of death radiating off of me and know I am nothing worth catching. Not even the feral dogs or bears want me. Then there are the days where the world goes black, and I am nothing. I do not move from my bed. I do nothing but stare off into the distance, and remember how I am weak, alone, unwanted.

I don't know how long I sit in my bed on this day, or when I make the decision that no, today will not be the day I let myself die. I stand, and guide myself to the bathroom, avoiding the sight of me in the mirror. I am not the girl who was on fire, nor am I the mockingjay. I am the broken shell of a nineteen year old girl with no family, no friends, and no real reason to live. I step into the shower, careful with how much heat is in the water – my burns still can't take the pulsating heat from the shower's head. When I wash away my sweat and tears from this morning, I dress and comb out my hair before I begin my usual braid. I step out of the bathroom, exhausted because this is the most I have done in days.

I look around my room, and see the filth that has culminated. I go to my bed, pulling the sheets away from the mattress, knowing they must need to be cleaned. While tugging at the corner of the bed, I think I hear the thud of the front door. I don't stop, assuming Greasy Sae is just dropping off her bounty for the day before heading back to the new trading market at the town square. I feel a rumble deep inside myself, and realize it has been days since I have eaten. I decide to take the sheets down and see what she has brought me. As I walk down the hall, I pass the mirror, and I freeze. I am shocked at how much I still resemble myself, and at how much I do not. I am thinner, and my clothes hang off of me as if I were a poorly fitted mannequin. My hair has grown very little, but the burnt parts have become lost within what was saved. My eyes are still gray, though now they are hollow. I see no life within them, no fire. I feel so impossibly aged, and yet, this pain is only reflected in my eyes. I look away and begin my way down the stairs.

…part where she runs into Peeta planting the prim roses...

That night, I dream of Peeta. I dream of our time in the cave, me pretending to love him for our chance to live, nursing him back to health, his confessions of longing and his kisses. And then we're at the cornucopia, watching Cato killed while Peeta is slowly dying. We're being told only one of us can live, taking the berries in our hands. "Are you sure?" he asks me, and I can tell he would eat them then and there if it meant I were safe. I'm reaching for his hand when suddenly we're on the train, and he's dropping my hand and freezing me out. We're back in the Capitol and his lips are finding mine for the cameras, and I find myself wanting him to find them for me. While he's kissing me, the stage becomes the roof, his arms are around me, and I am finding myself actually happy. Then we're making our way back to my bedroom, because I can't bear to let him leave me. when I lie down, I blink, and then I'm standing, crying, screaming, watching Finnick save Peeta, feeling the terror as he's lying there without a heartbeat. He's being pulled from me as Joanna start to unravel the wire, and I am trying to get back to Peeta, and I'm screaming. And then he's there at District 13, coming toward me, and all I feel is relief, happiness, when his hands clamp onto my throat.

I wake screaming again, screaming so hard that it becomes to come out in whispers. My body is thrashing against my bed and it's a second before I realize I am thrashing against something else, something warmer, something more solid than a mattress. I stop screaming as the terror hits me again and I look to my left. Peeta is trying to find my arms, to still them and to comfort me, but instead I start screaming again. His eyes are worried, and he starts saying my name, over and over and over until I can't scream anymore.

"Katniss," his voice is measured, like he is diffusing a bomb. "Katniss. It's okay. It was just a dream. You're home, in bed. You're fine. Come on, Katniss. Calm down." I can tell he is trying hard to decide whether to leave me, or to try and hold me again. Before he can fully decide, I choose for him. I reach for him and bury my face in his chest. I am crying, and it sounds horrible and hoarse and nothing like myself, but I am beyond caring. My arms are pulled around him so tightly I'm thinking I might be hurting him. It takes a few seconds before his arms are around me, cautiously at first and then just like mine, tight and secure, like we'll never be able to diffuse from one another. I can feel him nuzzle his face into my hair, hear his shaky intake of breath, and I think he may be crying too, but I don't dare pull away.

We lay there for hours, or maybe only minutes, crying and sighing and crying until we both collapse from exhaustion. But when I wake, he is gone. I look for any sign of him in my room, but there is none. I am alone in my room, in my house, just like always. As if his being here had been only a figment of a terribly twisted nightmare. I think of how real his warmth was, how safe I felt once I stopped breaking down, and how I slept with peace, not terror. Suddenly, there is warmth deep within my body that I barely recognize. The warmth I'd only ever felt for Peeta, no matter how much I tried to deny it. The grumble from my stomach brings me back to reality, and I make myself stand, stretch, and shower before heading down to the kitchen.

When I finally get to the kitchen, I find Greasy Sae at the stove, stirring whatever is in her crock, and a loaf of bread set in the middle of the table - along with a flower. My eyes stay longer on the flower – the small yellow dandelion that lay next to the loaf – and then Greasy Sae clears her throat. "Well, it's been a while since I've seen you, hasn't it? Come on, now. I've got food cooking and you look starved." She looks no different – the past three years have affected her appearance in no shape or form. She still hunches as she stands, her wild gray hair kept untidily underneath a small cap atop the crown of her head. Her hands are still quick and nimble when the food and the spoon as she works her way through the herbs and meat to create her stews, and her wit was still as sharp as the knives she used to skin her prey. The lack of change gives me a small comfort, even if I know she is not the same woman she was when I left for the Games. None of us will ever be the same again.

"Thanks, Sae." I choke out as I come closer to the pot. The scent of food is wafting all around me and my stomach begins to grumble more. She turns her head to look at me and a faint smile crosses her aged lips. "I'm sorry." I whisper.

"Hush." She says to me. She pats my hand lightly, nods her head, and turns back to the meal. "Things happen, and the world goes on. We must always remember that, love. The world goes on." I stay there with her in the kitchen while she prepares the meal, at the table with the bread and the flower. I take the flower in my hand and twirl it in my fingers, examining its petals and its stem until I know every small detail concerning it. I take in the three shades of yellow and brown that covers the petals, the shades of green across the body, the ridges along the bottom where the flower was ripped away from the earth. Even when the meal is prepared, and Sae sets a bowl in front of me, my eyes are still glued to the bloom.

"He left that for you this morning," Greasy Sae speaks quietly, as if her words will break the spell the dandelion has cast on me. "Said you would need it."

"Of course he did," is all I can reply before I set the flower to the side and begin to eat.

XxxX

A/N: Been a while since I tried this. Thanks for reading. More to come. Eventually.


	2. Chapter 2

XXX

Night after night goes by, none of which are graced by Peeta's presence. The nightmares are at bay, or maybe I just don't remember them because when I wake, instead of feeling hard, broken, shattered, I find myself wanting – wanting to run, to hunt, to clean and cook. I greet the morning with determination that I will not fall prey to saddened thoughts, that my heart will not search for Prim or Rue in the brush, in the clouds. I will go on, just as Greasy Sae has said.

I hunt, I trap, I snare, animal after animal, until I can carry no more in my burlap sacks. With the new technology the Capitol has shared with the districts, hunting is no longer necessary every day, but I still go out into the woods and catch rabbit, bird, fish. Sometimes I collect herbs and plants, for the healers in the hospital nearby. I try to donate my bounty to the few people that have come back to District 12, though they are reluctant to accept. After all, every person in Panem saw it – I killed the wrong president. I am crazy, unstable, mental. There is no telling what defense Plutarch and the others used in keeping me alive. And in my state with the morphling, I doubt I made their arguments much easier.

Greasy Sae takes my meat easily, cooking it up for the others, who will gladly eat what she will offer, and the healers are glad to know I know where to find the herbs. A few have even asked me to show them where to find them, though they are still afraid of the metal fence that has long since fallen and lies dead against the grass and weeds.

Slowly, I make myself useful again. I force myself to walk through town, to see the changes. There are new stores, with new owners, but they do not charge, nor are they unfriendly, like most were before the war. There is no Seam anymore, nor are there haves and have-nots. We are all have-nothings, now. There is a small apothecary, which was the hardest to walk past, knowing my mother's family name will never grace its sign again. The healer there however is quite kind, and enjoys my donations of herbs. When he asked how I learned of each of the plants I brought to him, I told him about our book that my father began, that Peeta and I added to as time went on. I promised to let him see it, and after, he did not hide his astonishment. Now, I bring him my book so he can copy what he can, for the people of the district as well.

There is a butcher, a seamstress, a laundress. The buildings seem like they took no time at all being rebuilt, but of course, I was not exactly aware in my mental stupor. From what Greasy Sae told me, many men came from the Capitol and the other districts to help rebuild, with the promise that able bodied men come help when needed as well. Donations of lumber, manpower, tools – all of it was enough to make the square resemble it's old self, but it would never restore its heart, those whose lives were their stores and the people who populated them. I am thankful to have missed seeing the district destroyed, and thankful to have missed the rebuilding, but regretful that I missed the chance to help.

"Please, you'd have been no help in your condition. Plus, who would have trusted you?" Greasy Sae had pointed this out to me one afternoon when I confided in her as she prepared a meal for the people down the road, whose child had come down with a bad fever. I had taken her word, and reminded myself to offer help the next time a building was to be built.

Like any other day, I start my walk through the town, careful to avert my eyes from the path that leads to the old house. I pass the schoolyard, the old abandoned mining company, and cross into the square, when I see it. There in the glass window, a load of bread, a set of cookies, all with decadent icing decorations drawn across their fronts, a beautiful cake with intricate designs across its sides. Over the door, there's a wooden sign hanging with "Mellark Bakery" painted across in calligraphy. I can smell the scents of nuts and fruit and flour floating throughout the air across the square. Through the window, I can see the front desk, where another display of Peeta's handiwork is set. A second later, Peeta is there, behind the counter, smiling as he places a box on the top. A woman steps to counter, reaching into her coin purse, but she is waved away by Peeta, who is shaking his head as he hands her the box. I can tell by the way her shoulders hunch she is embarrassed by this act of charity, but Peeta persists. I watch as it registers across his features and he finally understands. He tells her something with a small smile, and I see the tension fade away from the woman's form. Whatever he has said, it worked. He was always wonderful with words. It is good to see that of everything that may have changed in him, his natural kindness has not.

I stand there long enough to watch the woman to leave the store, box in tow. Peeta is adjusting things behind his counter, and I watch him as he does something that makes the muscles in his arms tense and flex. All of a sudden his eyes are up, looking out the window, straight at me. We stare, and it feels like forever and no time at all, all at once, before I turn my gaze and walk off, towards the butcher's, to see what he'd like me to catch tomorrow. I try not to think of Peeta, of his arms flexing, the muscles pressing against the arms of his shirt, or his piercing blue eyes, the way they caught me and froze me in place, every piece of me except for my heart, or how all of that made me feel.

After I arrive home, I drop my burlap sacks by the door and fill a large canteen with water and take it out to water Prim's roses. I stay outside as the sun falls behind the homes of the District, humming the songs my father taught me that I won't dare forget. I pull off the dead petals and gather them in a pile to bury them next to the existing bushes. I do this every day when I come home, rain or shine. I will never not feed Prim's roses, just like I would never leave Prim with nothing. Even in the days that I would do nothing but cry, I still remembered to force myself to care for Prim's flowers. Some times, when I feel the overwhelming pain of missing my sister, I speak to the bushes as if she were still around. I tell her of my day, the catches I found, the people I spoke to, and how much Buttercup and I miss her. I tell her of the rare calls I receive from our mother and update her of what she is up to as well. Sometimes when I feel the cold creep into my body again and I fear I'll slip back into my depression, I sit and cry next to the flowers, letting my tears water their soil, and I talk about my nightmares, of Rue and Finnick and Johanna and how much I miss them. I even let myself speak of Peeta. As I sift through the soil, I think again to Peeta's face, lighted in a cheery grin as he conversed with the woman in the bakery. My chest tightens and I force myself to take a deep breath. Once I finish burying the petals I sit on the ground, just soaking in the nighttime air. The sky has changed to a beautiful shade of pink that fades into a burnt orange, and before I realize it, I feel my lips tighten across my face. Peeta would love this view, I think to myself. I let myself smile a few seconds more, watching the colors glide across the sky, before I stand, brush the grass and dirt from my hands and pants, and begin to make my way back inside to reheat the food Greasy Sae left for me this morning.

As I cross the front yard, I see him coming up the walk way to Victor's Village, his frame growing slowly, and I can see he is limping more than I can remember. Peeta carries with him a sack, probably filled with supplies for his house, and for a second I think to say something to him, anything at all. The fading light from the what's left of the sun glints off his blonde locks, the waves of it falling across his face. He stops at the top of the hill at the beginning of our walkways and turns to face the sun, basking in his favorite setting. I am struck by how handsome he is, how remarkably well he has healed since his time in the Capitol, his body filled out and muscular...

I shake my head as if to wake myself. Peeta may look the same from before, I remind myself, but he will never be my Peeta again. The smile I had stretched across my lips loosens, falling back to my normal frown, and I watch still as Peeta turns from the sunset and begins his way again to his house. His head turns towards me, and his blue eyes catch mine long enough to register that yes, I had been watching him. I nod my head once and turn back to my house. I say nothing, and neither does he. When I am inside, I peak through the curtains drawn across my window. Peeta is reaching the door of his home, turning the knob of the door when he turns, his face drawn with confusion as he takes in my house, and stares for a second, before heading inside and closing the door. I let the curtain fall. The ache in my chest returns, and I pull my arms across my chest. Suddenly I am not hungry anymore. I thrust myself into my shower, pushing away thoughts of Peeta and then place myself in bed.

That night, I dream of Peeta.

The next morning, and every morning after, when I come to the kitchen after my hunt, there at the center of the table, rests a loaf of bread and a dandelion. Peeta has not come and stayed with me still, and I am starting to think perhaps the nightmares will leave me for a while longer. I try not to admit to myself that I miss him, that I need him, because perhaps I don't need him anymore, now that the nightmares haven't come still. I begin to take a couple rabbits and squirrels to Peeta's house, leaving them on the step when I know he will return home soon. One night I am returning home after finishing my deliveries and meeting with the healer, my book in one hand and my empty sacks in the other. I am almost to Victor's Village, when I see Peeta out by the rubble that had been cleared away when the others began to rebuild. He is sitting near a small pile, and for a second, I want to go to him. I make a move towards him when I realize exactly where he is. In the relation of our homes, Peeta found where his home, where his parents' home, once stood. I watched as he sat, kicking away pieces of charred wood and rubble.

I think of when I first returned to District 12, after the bombing and the world had turned to war. Everywhere I looked held death – a family who wasn't lucky enough to have Gale to lead them to safety, the homes that would never be whole again. I remember my home, where nothing but shards and the hearth were left of it, and how the pain felt like nothing I'd experienced during the Games. I feel my heart tugging me towards Peeta, but my body is frozen. All I can think is that he needs his closure, his goodbyes. I am not the only one who lost everyone I loved. The boy with the bread lost everything – and he never got to give his goodbyes.

That night I wake from terror again. It's not him in my nightmare, not his mutt version either. It's not even Prim and the children. Instead, I see my father. I see him and me singing The Hanging Tree, tying knots out of small pieces of string and keeping ourselves out of my mother's earshot. I see him teaching me to swim, to hunt, and each time I close my eyes a different memory resurfaces, until finally I see him leaving for work that final morning, the final ruffle of hair as he tells me he'll see us at night. "No, Daddy, don't go," I keep saying, over and over until I'm hoarse. I'm running to the mines, crying out for him to hear me; that if he goes there he'll never come back. He can't hear me no matter what I scream. I fall to my knees in agony and watch as the elevator takes my father below the earth, to his final resting place. I can't see his face, I can't see anything but the black hardhat he and the rest of the miners are required to wear. I stay there, rocking back and forth in pain until the explosion comes and I am knocked awake.

It takes me a second to realize I am crying, not screaming. No words are escaping me, only sobs, low and guttural and rough. My body is shaking so roughly I can feel my knees crashing together. Peeta is not here, and even though it's been many nights since he last shared the bed with me, I didn't expect to be so saddened when reminded. The bed is empty and cold, and I think if I stay much longer it will swallow me whole. I roll out of the bed and pull shorts and a shirt over myself before crossing to the window. I see a small dim light coming from Peeta's house, and before I know for sure this is what I want to do, I leave my house for his. I stand in front of his house, afraid to knock, battling with myself. Finally, my fear of sleeping alone and battling the demons on my own defeat my pride, and I rapped on the door lightly, so lightly I figured if he were asleep I could pretend it didn't happen and walk back.

For a moment I think that he is asleep, and the light is from a fire he did not put out. I turn to leave when I hear footsteps cross the floorboards, heavy and solid and his, then the door swinging open slowly. Peeta's hair is ruffled, his eyes groggy and red and puffy, as if he had possibly been crying as well. His chest and feet are bare, and in the low light coming from the room I can see small scars across his exposed body, creating a portrait of his torture during his time in the Capitol. My heart contracts when I see the marks, or maybe just him, and I am already in his arms before realize what I am doing, hugging him tightly and burying my face into his neck.

We stand there for I don't know how long, just like we did all those nights before. I can feel the beat of his heart, the rise and fall of his chest, the feelings I'd so desperately clung to those nights at the Games. I breathed in the scent of him, of bread and sweets and soap, and I couldn't believe the comfort I felt in these simple, small things that never seemed to matter with anyone else. When I finally loosen my grip, so does he, running his eyes over me. "Thank you," I say, suddenly conscious of my appearance.

"What for?" his voice is soft, croaky, like he'd been asleep, and I feel even worse, and better, all at the same time.

"For last night. For the bread. For the flower. For just now." I sigh, take one of his hands in mine and intertwine our fingers. "For everything you've ever done."

His blue eyes cloud with confusion and his eyebrows furrow and I can tell he is trying to understand what it is I am saying. Instead, he just replies, "You're welcome."

I smile at him, a small smile that I wasn't aware I could make anymore. "I'm so glad you're here," I say. I feel his hand as it brushes a stray strand of hair away from my face. His eyes are still clouded with confusion, but now his features are filled with worry. He pulls me aside to close the door.

"Me too. Come inside, it's late." He leads me through the living room, to the stairs where I stop as he begins the ascent. He stops when he notices I've become tense.

"Were you sleeping well?" I'm stalling, hoping he won't see it in my features. I'm not sure if I'm scared to go to bed with him, or scared to fall asleep at all, to be haunted by the ghosts from my past failures of protecting what I love.

"I wouldn't say well…"He trails off, his eyes seeing past me, and his features become dark again.

"I'm sorry for waking you up," I say as I touch the banister of the stairs. I realize I've never seen the inside of Peeta's home, and survey my surroundings. Painfully plain, much like my own, with nothing to remind him of what he once had. No photographs of his family, apart from one small picture frame made of silver. I'm surprised no one came and stole it once the district was destroyed. Surely someone would have taken the silver, melted it down for coins, or at the very least, traded the frame for something useful. But I am glad, at least as much as I can muster, that this one relic of his past life has survived.

"Are you coming or are you going to stand there the rest of the night?" Peeta brings me back to the moment, his hand extended to mine, still hesitant yet still opening himself to me, as he always has. I take a deep breath.

"You sleep upstairs?"

"No. Usually, I sleep on the couch if I sleep at all." He steps down from the staircase, pointing to the pillow and blanket set next to the seats. I see the dents pushed into the cushions, and I wonder how many nights he actually sleeps and how many he fights the furniture.

"Was your room upstairs before?" I ask, walking toward the couch, running my hands along the edge of the seat. There's a bookshelf to the right, filled with leather and cardboard bound books, the binding worn and their titles fading. Pencils, paintbrushes, sketchpads litter the shelves that are not filled with books. "Wow," I say as I take in the site. "You're a little messy."

I hear Peeta sigh, like he'd been holding his breath in fear, and then he lets out a small chuckle. "A little," he replies, leaning himself against the banister. "My room is upstairs. The room next to the kitchen is where I used to paint, I think. There are a lot of portraits of you in there anyway. I'm pretty sure I painted them." The silence hanging in the room is deafening after that last statement.

I turn to face him, to see if it is safe to be in the room with him. He looks puzzled, but his muscles aren't in spasms, and he isn't mumbling to himself. So I answer, "You did. They are wonderful paintings - even if they are painfully accurate." My body is tired, and my eyes are growing heavy, but I am trying hard to seem as if I could stay awake longer, when my body betrays me and I yawn, my entire body wanting to collapse then and there.

"Come on. We can at least sit." Peeta pulls the pillow and blankets from the side of the couch and lays them out before gesturing for me to sit. I am so tired I forget my reluctance and sink into the warm cushions. I nestle into the crevice of the cushion and the pillow, and then into Peeta's side once he sits down next to me and pulls the blanket across us. I pull my legs underneath me, just like when we were interviewed. His arm is around my shoulder, one hand rubbing circles on the side of my arm, while his other is encased in both of mine. I feel his lips brush against my forehead, and then his head fall gently against mine. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. "Why didn't you come in?" Peeta's question catches me off guard.

"What do you mean?" I say, even if I know exactly what he is referring to. I hear his low, soft chuckle, and the small smile stretches across my lips again.

"You're still a terrible liar, Katniss." He tries to move his body so that he can see my face, but I am snuggled too tightly against his side. I wait, expecting him to say more, but he doesn't. He knows why I didn't come in, just as well as he knows why he didn't come after me. "Go to sleep, Katniss. We're okay, now."

And he's right. For now, we're okay. I hear his large sigh, and feel his finger stop drawing circles, and I know he has fallen asleep. Not long after, I follow suit, falling into peaceful, dreamless slumber.

XXX


End file.
